


Fourteenth Century Minds

by Jabber_Moose



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabber_Moose/pseuds/Jabber_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Crowley still hates the 14th Century, Aziraphale is far too optimistic for his own good, and their captors are surprisingly not the worst sort they've come across.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteenth Century Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Late night nostalgia left me with the re-discovery of a prompt fill from 2010, and i thought to myself, "Well, this isn't awful."
> 
> Prompt: 
> 
> Good Omens/Robin Hood (of any flavor), Aziraphale/Crowley & Little John
> 
> Not even Crowley really cared all that much for the sheriff

It wasn’t that the fourteenth century was Crowley’s least favorite century as far as humanity went.

It just wouldn’t be his first pick as a vacation hotspot.

The smell was putrid, it was dirty, nobody bathed much, and the Church was in its heyday.

Granted, there were more than enough people clamoring for a deal or two, given the state of their existence, but there’s only so much smell a demon could take.

That, and the fact that they were currently being held captive by a band of morons.

“Do cheer up,” Aziraphale chided from his side. “It could be much worse, couldn’t it?”

“I fail to see, angel, how it could possibly be worse,” Crowley replied. 

Aziraphale sighed, patiently. “If you had paid the gentleman as he asked…”

“I thought,” Crowley interjected. “We were invisible, angel.”

“I told you-" Their captor was a large man with enough size and bulk to make Crowley think twice about crossing him. “If we don’t get no toll, then we don’t eat no roll.”

“Did someone mention a roll?” a shorter man with curly hair and sunglasses called.

“’ere, Blinkin,” the large man, Little John, threw the man a loaf of bread.

Blinkin raised a hand, fumbling, as the bread sailed safely past, landing in the brush.

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale assured him. “It was our mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“It was a bridge,” Crowley hissed. “Two steps over the stream. Hardly a bridge..it was a plank.”

Aziraphale nudged him, gently, smiling amicably. “Hush, dear.”

“I dunno,” Little John (who had convinced him that he wasn’t, in fact, so little, but real large) shrugged his shoulders. “Think we should wait for Robin.”

“Where is Master Robin, anyway?” Blinkin pondered, shifting his body this way and that, as if searching.

“Training the villagers with Will and Ahchoo,” Little John said.

“Bless you,” Aziraphale added.

Little John gave Aziraphale a baffled look. “It’s bad business,” he said. “Prince John is off his rocker. Times are bad ‘round here.”

“Master Robin’ll set things right,” Blinkin put in with a hint of pride in his voice. “Just you watch.”

Crowley personally thought it was an odd comment coming from a blind man.

“If you don’t mind terribly,” Aziraphale said. “We’re in a bit of a rush. If you could..perhaps..let us go?”

Little John stared at them, as if just realizing Crowley and Aziraphale were tied up. “Oh, I’ll be..” his features softened into something far more pleasant, apologetic. He lumbered over, and cut them free. “Real sorry ‘bout that, boys.” He grinned, boyishly.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiled back, rubbing his wrists, lightly. Too good sometimes, that angel.

“Just don’t let it happen again,” Little John folded his arms, once again looking rather menacing, but his eyes were twinkling.

“What happened?” Blinkin asked, belatedly.

“Nothin’ Blinkin,” Little John says. “I was bein’ rude to our captives.”

“That all?” Blinkin nodded, mildly, taking off his sunglasses to polish them.

Crowley rather liked them, actually. Come to think of it…since when were there sunglasses so early on?

Just a moment, here.

_Those were his!_

“Where did you get those?” Crowley asked. “The glasses.”

Blinkin tilted his head. “These? Aw, these were a gift from Master Robin when he was a small child. Nice, aren’t they?”

Crowley made a sound of agreement.

“Master Robin said ‘e’d gotten ‘em when he was a boy. Said he’d been touched by an angel,” Blinkin sounded rather dreamy, wistful.

Crowley turned his head. “Angel…”

“I may have…popped back in time, once or twice,” the Principality had the decency to look flushed.

“And gave him my _ssunglassesss_?”

“Don’t be cross,” Aziraphale raised his hands in surrender.

“You’ve got a bad habit of giving away things that aren’t yoursss to give,” Crowley muttered.

“You aren’t angry, are you?”

Crowley was saved from response by a rather obnoxious trumpet blaring, and several men on horseback thundering past, kicking up slush, dirt, and Heaven and Hell only knew what else.

“Can we go now?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, untouched by muck, and wiped the offending substance off Crowley’s cheek, affectionate, before they flashed from sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Good Omens itself, as a nod to both the book and the legends of Robin Hood.


End file.
